He's not a Mischa Elman yet, that's for sure. He turned to his wife. Isn't dinner soon ready?
She rose in stately fashion, smoothed her hair back from her brow, and headed straight for the kitchen. Almost like a somnambulist.
Let's pull up to the table, said Reb. You people must be famished.
She was a good cook, Mrs. Essen, but too lavish. There was enough food on the table for twice as many as we were. The wine was lousy. Jews seldom had a taste for good wine, I observed to myself. With the coffee and dessert came Kummel and Benedictine. Mona's spirits rose. She loved liqueurs. Mrs. Essen, I noticed, drank nothing but water. Reb, on the other hand, had been helping himself liberally. He was slightly inebriated, I would say. His talk was thick, his gestures loose and floppy. It was good to see him thus; he was himself, at least. Mrs. Essen, of course, pretended not to be aware of his condition. But the son was delighted; he enjoyed seeing his old man make a fool of himself.
It was a rather strange, rather eerie ambiance. Now and again Mrs. Essen tried to lift the conversation to a higher level. She even brought up Henry James—her idea of a controversial subject, no doubt—but it was no go. Reb had the upper hand. He swore freely now and called the rabbi a dope. No talky-talk for him. Fisticuffs and wrastling, as he called it, was his line now. He was giving us the low-down on Benny Leonard, his idol, and excoriating Strangler Lewis, whom he loathed.
To needle him, I said: And what about Redcap Wilson? (He had worked for me once as a night messenger. A deaf-mute, if I remember right.)
He brushed him off with—A third-rater, a punk.
Like Battling Nelson, I said.
Mrs. Essen intervened at this point to suggest that we withdraw to the other room, the parlor. You can talk more comfortably there, she said.
With this Sid Essen slammed his fist down hard. Why move? he shouted. Aren't we doing all right here? You want us to change the conversation, that's what. He reached for the Kummel. Here, let's have a little more, everybody. It's good, what?
Mrs. Essen and her daughter rose to clear the table. They did it silently and efficiently, as my mother and sister would have, leaving only the bottles and glasses on the table.
Reb nudged me to confide in what he thought was a whisper—Soon as she sees me enjoying myself she clamps down on me. That's women for you.
Come on, Dad, said the boy, let's get the fiddles out.
Get ‘em out, who's stopping you? shouted Reb. But don't play off key, it drives me nuts.
We adjourned to the parlor, where we spread ourselves about on sofas and easy chairs. I didn't care what they played or how. I was a bit swacked myself from all the cheap wine and the liqueurs.
While the musicians tuned up fruit cake was passed around, then walnuts and shelled pecans.
It was a duet from Haydn which they had chosen as a starter. With the opening bar they were off base. But they stuck to their guns, hoping, I suppose, that eventually they would get in step. It was horripilating, the way they hacked and sawed away. Along toward the middle the old man broke down. Damn it! he yelled, flinging his fiddle on to a chair, it sounds god-awful. We're not in form, I guess. As for you, he turned on his son, you'd better practise some more before you play for anybody.
He looked around as if searching for the bottle, but catching a grim look from his wife he slunk into an easy chair. He mumbled apologetically that he was getting rusty. Nobody said anything. He yawned loudly. Why not a game of chess? he said wearily.
Mrs. Essen spoke up. Please, not to-night!
He dragged himself to his feet, It's stuffy in here, he said. I'm taking a walk. Don't run away! I'll be back soon.
When he had gone Mrs. Essen tried to account for his unseemly conduct. He's lost interest in everything; he's alone too much. She spoke almost as if he were already deceased.
Said the son: He ought to take a vacation.
Yes, said the daughter, we're trying to get him to visit Palestine.
Why not send him to Paris? said Mona. That would liven him up.
The boy began to laugh hysterically.
What's the matter? I asked.
He laughed even harder. Then he said: If he ever got to Paris we'd never see him again.
Now, now! said the mother.
You know Dad, he'd go plumb crazy, what with all the girls, the cafe's, the...
What a way to talk! said Mrs. Essen.
You don't know him, the boy retorted. I do. He wants to live. So do I.
Why not send the two of them abroad? said Mona. The father would look after the son and the son after the father.
At this point the doorbell rang. It was a neighbor who had heard that we were visiting the Essens and had come to make our acquaintance.
This is Mr. Elfenbein, said Mrs. Essen. She didn't seem too delighted to see him.
With elbows bent and hands clasped Mr. Elfenbein came forward to greet us. His face was radiant, the perspiration was dripping from his brow.
